A line from the state annotated code seemed to haunt him:
Jack stalled.
He closed the door behind him, wiped down the knobs, and walked in. He withdrew the Smith.38 and proceeded.
The downstairs search was effective and quick. He made no noise and left no prints. Only a few lights were on. The entire lower level seemed a clash in design: colonial living room, Victorian study, Tudor-style foyer. It was funny. He noticed no phones, no televisions or radios, or the like. He checked the kitchen last, large and contemporary. He stopped stock-still.
On the floor lay a smashed portable cellular phone.
And something else. A puddle. Streaks.
Blood.
Now was when he should leave; things had added up to his legal favor. Khoronos’ name, the black sedan, and now wet blood. He should exit the house immediately, retreat to the car, and radio for help. As for probable cause, he could lie to the judge and prosecutor, tell them that he saw the blood from the outside, through the kitchen window, then he wouldn’t have to beat the shaky physical entry. He’d merely tell them he’d never entered the house. But if he was going to do that, he’d have to get out right now, before he might be seen. And…
He looked down at the blood.
He put the Smith snub in his pocket and unslung the shotgun.
He searched every room upstairs quickly and quietly. One room was the freakiest thing he’d ever seen, a room made completely of mirrors. Jack didn’t waste time wondering. The other five rooms were bedrooms. Veronica’s was obvious: paints, brushes, a smudged palette. A single painting sat propped up to dry. “Veronica Betrothed,” she’d penned on the back frame, and her name in the corner, “V. Polk.” She’d painted herself in the strangest clarity, crisply naked yet stunningly abstract, holding hands with a figure of flames.
Jack could almost feel the heat just looking at it.
The other bedrooms were spartan and clean. In the last he found a typewriter and a story. “The Passionist” by Virginia Thiel, but no Ginny to go along with it.
Then he heard a quick, muffled—
Jack whirled, bringing the shotgun down and nearly releasing his bladder. What he faced was a closed door. And again:
Jack pointed the Remington straight at the door. His heart hammered. He popped off the trigger safety with his right index finger, and—
— and nearly squeezed off a round at the start from the next pummel of beats. It must be a closet. Jack turned the knob, pulled and stepped back. He stood sideways, to offer as little target mass of himself as possible, and the door keened open.
Jack lowered the Remington. A woman, bound and gagged, lay on the closet floor. Bare legs squirmed, eyes bulged up from out of the dark. Jack stared. The woman was Ginny Thiel.
He dropped on his knee. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “I’m going to untie you.” Ginny went lax as Jack struggled with her bonds. She wore a ripped sundress; blood streaked her legs. It was plain to see that she’d been raped.
They’d tied her up tight as a meat bundle. He finally got the gag off, which she’d nearly chewed through.
“Jack—”
Jack pressed his palm across her mouth. “Quiet. Talk quiet.”
She gulped, nodded.
“You’re going to be all right now. Don’t worry. But I need to know what’s going on.”
“I…,” she murmured. “Khoronos, Gilles…aw, God…”
“What about Khoronos? Where is he?”
Tears flooded her eyes; she trembled at some recollection. When he got the rope off her, she lurched forward and hugged him.
“Calm down.” He pushed her wet hair off her brow. Her skin felt clammy, slick. It scared him the way she was shaking.
“Who else is in the house, Ginny? I need to know.”
She stifled sobs into his shoulder. “All of them,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Khoronos, Marzen…Gilles.”
“Where’s Veronica?”
“With them, I think,” she sobbed.
“Basement,” she choked. “The room with the mirrors.”
But Jack had already seen that. What could an upstairs room have to do with the basement?
“Listen to me. I’ll get you to a hospital real soon, but I have to find these guys first. So I want you to stay here. They think you’re tied up, so they won’t come back. You stay here until I come for you. All right?”
She was still staring, half at Jack, half at memory. Eventually she nodded.
“Sit way back in the closet. Take this—” he put the Smith.38 in her hand. “You hear anybody come into this room, point it up at the door. Hold it straight out with both hands. All you have to do is squeeze the trigger. You hear me?”
She nodded again, looking at the little gun in her hand.
“Anyone opens this door that’s not me…shoot.”
He slid her back into the closet. If he let her go out to the car by herself, she’d give his position away. Jack needed the element of surprise, and he wouldn’t have that with a delirious woman stomping about the house.
Despair replaced the terror on her face. “It was Gilles.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Young, big, short dark hair. He’s French.”
“Those three. Gilles, Marzen… And Khoronos.”
“Be careful of Marzen,” Ginny warned. “He’s younger, bigger.”
“Sit tight. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
Jack stood up, began to close the closet door.
“Wait, Jack. Marzen and Gilles…they’re…”
“What?”
